8

“But, Jimi Hendrix?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She grins, and I nearly groan. There’s a deep dimple in her left cheek and it’s so girlish and cute, it nearly kills me. She adds, “Little Wing.”

“One of my favorites of his,” I say.

“Mine, too.”

When she reaches to turn on the vacuum cleaner, I say, “Just a second. What’s your name?”

“Ella Marchand.”

“I’m Kingston Tyler,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Ella Marchand.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” she says. Even though the lighting is dim, I can see the faint blush on her cheeks.

The vacuum hums to life, and she gets back to work.

Even though I wish I could keep talking to her, I shut my mouth like a good CEO and move back to my desk. I try to look at my computer, and not at her.

Ella. She’s gorgeous.

I stare blankly at my monitor, like the sick fuck I am, and think about what it might be like to lift the hem of Ella’s uniform a little higher. I wonder what kind of panties she’s wearing under it. Something sexy and grown-up? Or something younger? T